Friday, December 29, 2006

(((20))) --- the city was a line drawn from wherever you are to some other, more radioactive spot: because there is always the sense that we will decay into ‘it’, will be experimental homeless persons waking invisibly in a seperable commercial sphere. each of our spasms will be shortlived and will have no letter ‘I’ //// but will have lips, albeit shared. the voice is a splintered image; a stain, static talking, scorched. these notes have little to do with Baudelaire, or other twilight phenomena like friendship or love.

[[[these notes are all part of a larger project called "baudelaire in english", which is almost done and will be published by Veer Books sometime in 2007]]]

Wednesday, December 27, 2006

(((18))) there have been few calls for the realization of poetry lately, and much less philosophy. peculiar, because we still spend our nights hunting for potential parasites within our direct reference body. to talk 'me' is redundancy, yet it is still events that we are inside //// air-dropped by modern poetry. what would its realization actually feel like ::::: would it be fortified like marriage, or lifestyle, ringing with moveable lips. most of it is kept in boxes, as if 'it' and 'love' were semi-detachable units proving capitalism has not spread into all the cracks, particularly those called 'I': or a letter from 'e' to an image of 'e' still in the text. like this projected brick. my name will never appear on their shameful registers //// insert mandatory class struggle slogan here. &&& mean it. everyone in cambridge is dead. in any case, the cracks are surrounded by bistable multi-border guards:: prosodically vibrating with boredom. there is a box called poetry, so stop paying rent. drink pink metal, heated.

(((19))) --- & take ‘thought cancer’ as ‘die soon’ from within the more tedious senses, worship (for example): become any letter, an alphabet item scratched history:::: to smirk, but screamed. nothing less has polite importance /// poetry-shaped motherfuckers with static deep systems, blisters on top of the sky’s culture logic.

Saturday, December 23, 2006

(((13))) --- but at least no-one is entirely price-fixed, not yet. what VOICE are you on this morning? well, I feel like an infinitely dense ball of combustible metal, ie a planet, ie this city:::: cigarette / almond croissant. or the pitched green malevolance of the english countryside. it bark. its nasty little churches.

(((14))) --- then again, we can at least describe some of the elements necessary for a healthy personality. photographed 500 times a day, we are image cancer & proliferate /// or the gesticulating figure becomes a dot fixture, an index of servile redundancy. yet think of the sky’s image howling, creased & shared within these collective eyes.

(((15))) --- most people, however, fall between two extremes and are normal or within normal limits, connected by a system of tubes and pulleys to an almost visible roar within the tedious crowd. each letter of the alphabet is this communal “I”, gesticulating wildly. meanwhile, the melt core of London is just this string of secretive or selective ideas. if you force-feed them rubble & bulldoze their throats they will flinch & scream.

(((16))) --- lies are necessary. at times ****** this is the squirting through, after all, it was there in these poems and within that a taboo against using the word lyric. tedious crowd. each image howling. so now it is our means of entering Paris 1857, which has effigies of London, daily x-rays of the papers (city-image / pulse-rings should be commercially poems . . . .

(((17))) --- I am hard of & can’t hear my own voice. we hope to reach beyond our condition or puke on the hope society. that was a fragment of dialogue. you are scum. I think I should kiss you. Baudelaire is not important. modern poetry is crisis exhaust. it is very strange: call it thought, however, falls / or London does collectivedly on its clean capitalist face EXAMPLE split 'it'::::make it distant & weirdly dense balls of combustible letters, meaning am trapped in Hackney /// am one of its ghosts, mouth soldered.

Monday, December 11, 2006

(((10))) --- & yet for Hackney every night stings. the cops here are very strange, and the males especially are shortlived & have no gut. all they hope for is to single out the walls of ‘security’ ::: speaking personally I forget to go through the letter ‘I’, the shit me, and spend my nights listening to the sounds of distant collapsing cancer. the ocean is adverbs. their spines are moveable and hollow. at night they become active, swimming and hunting for food. like here are three smudged cells . . .

(((11))) --- sometimes the issue is as simple as where to put the mouth. lies are the norm & the social whirl is concussion, more or less. after all, it was modern poetry that led us here, or how my own city is made distant & strange. take any letter: ‘m’, for example: split ‘it’ and turn ‘it’ sideways. panic scabies is no excuse: kisses are at times necessary. at times. it is 10:15 at least somewhere or /// you wouldn’t believe what splinter I pulled in my eye this morning.

(((12))) --- London collectively thinks that it is exempt from the world, like heaven, or Paris 1857. it has effigies of Basra and Beirut stashed inside its INVISIBLE hours, they are lead bodies, they are x-rays of all of our faces ****** CLICK this is the real meaning of Threadneedle St. this is the melt core of all there is to say. to talk about psychogeography without direct reference to these facts is an eyeball crack //// or to speak of the flaneur without explicit reference to the co-ordinates of each homeless person and each spitparticle, each spasm inside the letter L //// by this point all of our pulse-rings should be commercially available ------

Wednesday, December 06, 2006

(((8))) --- we left this morning in lamplight, vice etc. meanwhile, the pronoun cluster is having a hard time: it does not proliferate but instead devours memory cells & crackles & maybe whispers. it is a screen against stimuli. translate that as the ATM machine we are squirting through - our encampment, our tiny poems. it is indecent to speak of these private events / we are held inside / 500 cameras / daily / money is memory, & absolutely involuntary. it is our second sight, it is our means of burns & loans.

(((9))) --- there is a lyric I in these poems & it is annoyed by efforts to destroy it. the I has become an interferer, an inconvenience, a potential parasite within the clean capitalist body. in central London there is a taboo against using the word LIPS . . .

Friday, December 01, 2006

“. . . left the ruins, climbed out from under the white stones” - Amiri Baraka

(((1))) --- think ghost shit as a set of rooftops imposed on other systems of twitching in public. our language is also that debased. think cancer as radical nostalgia for legitimate ruins like the letter I.

(((2))) --- or put it this way - the coiled voice interferes, & by the fourth day colonies of brightly flourescent cells can be seen gathering at the borders, spherical structures containing the white pulp of the spleen. they do not proliferate, but instead become memory cells and crackle. a sound interpreted as scribbled ink over imaginary tones that the jaw finds in rain, or in its crack’d rooms & narrative scratches. scientists have described it as the composition of intricate songs for love purposes. if it says the city has not won, or if it turns in panic to the intense geography of body hair, then it gasps and is several octaves lower. you might describe it as your reflection, the installation of an image window fit for polite society and of course lacking any indecency, impurity or silence. if you kick this skull it will ring, circles, sane abstractions that the radioactive trains pass through Hackney every night would curl inside the desired hands can trap wasps, spraycans. what appears normal to daily newspapers is actually the residue of a few persisting neonuclear cells, scratches & static deep within the grafitoid receiver. meanwhile, intimacy scratched from the map’s spine trembles. the incinerated city lurks in the centre of the vicious heart’s splinter.

(((3))) .--- had to mangle the voice. meanwhile, there are still parts of town that newspapers are afraid of, even ones printed deep inside the territory. newspapers are day cells, and cracked. the centre of polite society expresses just this problem: jaw systems of an image city. our language is lower, is necessarily debased. the lyric voice is a tense flicker, like not all of your molecules reflect in any image window at any one time: everyday life would love the ability to show you something that is not a diagram of just this research into the ‘it splinter’.

(((4))) --- or perhaps you’d rather have something you can understand, some anthropomorphic office worker, for example. ITEM “I would like to change jobs and it may cost me my life ITEM “I have been removed from the human alphabet ITEM “perhaps at that moment I should have smashed him in the face, destroyed his office and produced a submachine gun to shoot my way out”. Baudelaire is a term for an executioner’s blade ITEM I feel a small sting of envy.

(((5))) --- I am interested in the development of cells. I have mapped out their locations, studied their general habits. it is true to say that there are negative areas. I have never thought the ocean before.

(((6))) --- or the tracks of it your breath makes and crackles on a seperate continent. ‘You’ and ‘Me’ are adverbs****distant sounds of collapsing galaxies like waking strange as rabies /// reaching for the phone &&& smudged by the time distance. each single circle breaks through the restriction of its element as it grounds a further sphere. all you can do is write it out as a method of ‘security’, or ‘assurance’::::taken on those terms love is unacceptable payoff smirk. but just as you write that on your arm then everything flouresces &&& all is blue winter varied stars. in this vast ringing my bones are / the place / where water / echoes / cracks in / voice circle / the politics of what I just said / shit me. I forget to take my medication and feel I oughta bump off all the self-righteous motherfuckers who don’t believe they’re gonna die soon and am made dizzy by traces of me moving through cities I have never seen. and all those pathetic attempts to squint out the cracks in the walls may be simply misguided attempts to look in.

(((7)))--- but all you can do is write for several daily newspapers (city image city) ::::::: or explain how our indecency in the office produced a nostalgia for wasps (for example) workers (for example) smudged cells & negative thought residue ITEM I have been all the envy, & the cost of that coils right through the letter ‘I’, & has destroyed all of our research. we tried to interpret it as like hair, but then it just gasped & rang at the borders so now we call it ‘thought cancer’ as a chance to shoot our way out of any language still identifiable as the jaw of polite society. taken on those terms I love rain & all those cracked rooms & through Hackney every night this lyric medication splinters in our understanding stings.

Friday, September 15, 2006

on glamour, or a bundle of sticks for is occupied single tube for eating & puking:::

*

1. Your city is an activity signal. A document of the essential reliable poem, an alien place from which we solicit approval

2. Or there are anti-places that celebrity splits in hate receptacle of an entirely visible public who operate entirely through seduction, understood as ‘levels’ and information particles. Highlights filtered through magazines that rarely publish ‘poems’ or

emanate from radically forced accessibility transposed into fucking then pressed into palm providing a ‘front vanity’ for importation into the passive home that is sealed off from itself and sealed off equally from the hypothetical ‘us’

unless something manifests as an interrupter reached via engagement with nerve endings through glamour, recognised as (1) the other paranoia as negative density of (2) the melancholy feedback loop into (3) the site of the explicitely comprehenible life split into two distinct manifestations that we would like to believe meet in love but

actually come in the form of a fashion word in the citycaves in pakistan or celebrities, as in life

3. Which is a receptacle of dissapearance hatred and useless activity, or the city ports are boring now. About as much use as the various seperable versions of ‘la vie boheme’ understood as a passive network of cellules and meshes occupied by split shops each

containing a vicious link to action in unknowable places at both ends of imagined scales of freedom housing bleak entry to housing estates ‘the city of the future’ splits the sky in two. Accessibility is its hatred and suicide bombers are and is its imagination of

the poverty that you the normal celebrity portrays as a source of spatio-temporal personal identity, as in whoever squirts first will reveal these areas of vastly differing explosion we all have to live in else

Monday, August 07, 2006

Sunday, August 06, 2006

Sunday, July 30, 2006

Symptoms of ruin. Vast buildings. Several, one on top of the other, appartments, rooms, some temples, galleries, lanterns, stairways, fountains, viewpoints, statues. Fissures and cracks. Dampness resulting from a resevoir situated near the sky. How to warn peoples and nations? let us whisper warnings into the ears of the most intelligent.

High up, a column cracks and its two ends are displaced. Nothing has collapsed as yet. I can no longer find the way out. I go down, then climb back up. A labyrinth tower. I never succeeded in leaving. I live forever in a building on the point of collapsing, a building undermined by a secret malady - I work out in my mind, to amuse myself, if such a prodigious mass of stones, marbles, statues, walls, which are about to collide with each other, will be greatly sullied by that multitude of brains, human flesh and shattered bones - I see such terrible things in my dreams that sometimes I wish I could sleep no more, if I could be sure not to be so weary.